Last Train to Babylon (25 page)

Wednesday, October 29, 2014.

“I
HAVE GOOD
news,” Laura says. I'm sitting in her office. The window is cracked, and it smells like burning leaves. “I think this will be our last session.” I look back at her, sort of confused, but she cuts in before I can ask any questions. “This was always meant to be temporary, Aubrey.”

“So, I'm cured? Just like that?”

“No,” she says. “Not even close. You obviously still have a lot of work to do. But you have a life you need to get back to, and I don't think it's necessarily benefiting you anymore to stick around here.” I can't tell if I'm relieved or terrified, but I feel pretty dense for not expecting this.

“Wow,” I say. “Okay. So are you like breaking up with me?” She smiles, a dry sort of smile, and I'll take it. I guess she'll never appreciate my humor.

“I'm referring you to a therapist in Manhattan.” She crosses her legs. “Look. It's going to be a long road. And it might even get worse before it gets better. But I don't think it's anything you can't handle.”

I nod, and start to really think about what it will be like to go back to my life. Back to my job. Back to Danny.

But I still have one last secret.

“I have a confession to make,” I say, and I can feel the words burning up inside me. I pick up my BlackBerry; the tiny envelope flashes at me.

“I lied about Rachel,” I say. “I spoke to her. I saw her.”

“When?” Laura asks. She doesn't seem surprised.

“Two weeks before she died,” I say.

September 2014.

I
T WASN'T MY
scene. The strobe flashed and swirled around us, beating against the paint-spattered walls. The DJ spun some techno, fist-pumping beat, and I clutched my drink in my sweaty palm—vodka-soda-splash-of-cran.

“You getting another?” I called out to Ariel, who raised her glass of pink ice toward the ceiling. I think we were in a warehouse, or a church, or a meat freezer—somewhere downtown, between SoHo and the Meatpacking District. It really, really wasn't my scene.

Ariel didn't hear me, she just spun around as this guy in a wifebeater thrust his junk up against her, so I walked up to the bar myself. I raised my empty glass and a twenty-dollar bill, and mouthed “another” to the shirtless bartender. He nodded, threw down a drink in a small plastic clear cup with too much ice, and took my money.

I took a sip of my watered-down vodka, turned back to the bartender and asked for a shot of tequila.

“You got it,” he shouted over the pounding music. He put down a thimble-sized medicine cup.

“Yeah,” I said. “Make that a double.” He threw down another.

“Thirty,” he said. I threw my card at him.

“It's a hundred-dollar minimum,” he said, his voice raspy, and I wondered how he could do it night after night.

“Whatever,” I said, throwing back the shots. I winced as the rusty-key-flavored booze flowed down my throat.

Tequila Mockingbird.

This was girls' night out. Or at least it was supposed to be—but I hadn't seen Casey in hours and Ariel was about to have dry sex on the dance floor with a guy who couldn't be more than nineteen.

My phone buzzed from inside my clutch. I hoped it was Danny with some pseudo emergency so I'd have a reason to slip out of this place. But when I looked at the phone, I had three text messages—all from Rachel.

I'd deleted her name out of my phone, but I'd had her number memorized since we were thirteen, and just seeing those numbers splayed out over my screen made me want to crush my phone with my sweaty, vodka-soda-splash-of-cran-holding hand.

I read over the texts one more time. This wasn't the first string of messages she'd left me. It had started about a month earlier, with a bizarre request:
Let's go to Montauk tomorrow.

And the texts kept coming, rapid-fire, like we were still thick as thieves, like nothing had changed between us five years ago. I never answered—not one of them. Just deleted them, piece by piece. But there was something about the buzz that I was feeling that night, in that old warehouse/church/meat freezer, that almost,
almost
made me want to answer.

I stuffed my phone back into my bag and shouldered my way through the crowd toward the bathroom. A knot twisted in my stomach, like a tightly wound noose, and I knew that if I didn't get myself a toilet bowl or some air very soon, I'd end up losing it again. I could see the line for the bathroom snaking against the back wall, so I opted for the exit instead.

There were too many people, and as I squeezed through limbs and writhing bodies, I tried to remember whose idea the night had been.

I felt hands fumble at me. I was so close to the exit. When I thought I was almost to the door, the hands fumbled again, and he pulled me up against his groin, his hairy arm squeezing around my waste. My whole body stiffened, and he whispered something breathy and inaudible into my ear. I squirmed out of his grip, but he didn't let up, so I did the only thing I could think of and thrust my elbow into his gut. He fell back and mumbled something.

“What did you just say?” I whipped around, and saw the guy doubled over. He had a goatee and looked like he might have been balding.

“I said”—he stood up and got in my face—“that you're a dumb, fucking slut.”

I didn't think. I didn't breathe. I just wound up, and with one swift motion, brought my open palm into his face.

I was dizzy. The lights flashed, the strobe pulsed, and my chest felt tight. The last time I'd slapped someone across the face, it had been Rachel.

When I got outside, the air hit me. I fell against the brick wall of the building, pulled my knees into my chest, and sucked in air. It stopped before reaching that point in my chest, and the streetlights started to spin, so I reached into my bag for a cigarette. Panic attacks weren't unusual for me those days, but I pushed through. I breathed and I smoked and I went off by myself, like a cat going off to die. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, and without thinking, I answered it.

“Hello,” I managed between shallow, panicky breaths. I held the cigarette between my lips and lit it.

“Aubrey.” Silence. “I didn't think you'd answer.” It took me at least five seconds to realize that it was Rachel. The air punched out of my stomach. I wanted to hang up, I needed to hang up, but I saw the bouncer coming at me, so I clutched the phone in my jittery, sweaty palm and listened.

I took a deep drag of the Parliament and let the smoke ribbon into my lungs, filling that hollowed space.

“What do you want?” I said. My throat felt dry and made of sand, and I wondered for a moment if she could hear the panic in my voice, but quickly decided that she couldn't. She couldn't five years ago, and she didn't now. Some things never changed. I was about to hang up, but it was like magnets pulled my BlackBerry toward my ear.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” she said. And then I sensed the panic in
her
voice. It was shaky and sad, nothing like the Rachel I remembered. “Things aren't so good,” she said.

“Mm,” I said, taking another deep drag. There were too many people on the sidewalk, and my hands were still shaking, so I closed my eyes.

“I'm having suicidal thoughts,” she said; her voice was calm and plain, like she was telling me about a new job. “I'm depressed. I really want to see you. It would mean a lot.”

“You're depressed?” I scoffed.

Her voice broke on the other line. “I don't get what I did to you,” she said. “Could you just meet me? For coffee? Just give me that much?”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
we sat in the dim diner, next to the coffee grinder, and I could already smell the deep fishy aroma of slick espresso beans settling into my T-shirt, and I made a mental note to shower before dinner.

Rachel sat across the booth, her back stiff against the blue vinyl cushions. I sat with my legs crossed, slouching, and held a paper cup to my lips. I blew soft ripples into the black coffee and sipped. When I'd asked for a cup to go, the waiter looked at me funny, but I planned on making a swift exit and didn't feel like wasting a perfectly good cup of coffee.

I agreed to meet her against my better judgment. But only if she came to the city and only if she promised to keep the meeting between us.

I eyed Rachel over the top of my cup. She fidgeted with a napkin, and I waited for her to talk first.

“Thanks,” she said, twisting the napkin in her hands. “For meeting me here, I mean.”

“What else would you mean?” I asked, a dry, bored sound to my voice. I almost, almost felt bad for her.

“Look,” she said. “I know you hate me.” She paused, and when I didn't correct her, she started up again. “But I really need my best friend back.”

“Rachel,” I said.

“Please.” She wouldn't look at me. She just stared down at the table, tearing off pieces of napkin and rolling them into tiny balls.

She looked different. Thinner. Her hair looked like a shiny layer of plastic. Maybe just greasy. She wore a baggy gray sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder.

“What did you expect?” I said. I could feel my throat dry and that swell of panic just beneath my breastbone. “We've grown apart. We just aren't friends anymore. We have completely different lives. I've moved on.” As I said the words, they sounded rehearsed. But they weren't. I was just trying not to let myself feel the words. Because if I felt them, then she'd know. “Why can't you just get that through your head?”

“Why?” she said. “Why aren't we friends? I don't get it, Aubrey. You left for college, and that was it.”

“You know why.”

“No, I don't. You just stopped caring about everyone here. Me, Adam.”

“You? Adam? Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I started to get that dizzy feeling behind my eyes, and I tried to focus on the words in my head. I tried so hard to keep my eyes fixed on Rachel, but everything started to spin. “You and Adam were just fine,” I said.

“You don't understand,” she started. “I need you. I am depressed. You are my best friend. I don't know who else to talk to.” She was crying now, and it just fueled my rage. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the diner on us, on the poor sobbing girl, and that cold bitch who made her cry.
Cold Bitch.

“Get a fucking shrink,” I said. I started to grab my coat, but she said something that made me stop.

“I only did it because of what you did with Eric.”

Wednesday, October 29, 2014.

L
AURA JUST PINCHES
her lips and nods along when I tell her about my last meeting with Rachel. I have a feeling she knew that I'd seen her, but if so, she hadn't let on. I still don't tell her about that voice mail; that's between me and Rachel, and I think it always will be.

“So how do you feel about the way you left things off with Rachel?” she finally asks. I think about it for a second and place my hands down at my sides.

“I don't know how I feel,” I say, and I mean it. I don't know. I should feel guilty, and maybe I do on some level, but for now, I can't say. “Do you think I should feel guilty?” I ask.

“I think you should feel any way you feel.”

“What if I don't know how I feel?”

“You will,” she says. “Give it some time.”

“Can I ask you something?” I say. I can feel my hands start to shake.

“Of course.”

“Do you think it was my fault?” I breathe in, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for the answer. “Rachel, I mean.”

“Aubrey,” she starts, her voice low. “I know this is our last session, so if you take anything away from our meetings, I want it to be this.” She looks at me with an uncomfortable intensity until I nod. “You are not responsible for anybody's actions but your own. You cannot control the way other people feel.”

“I guess that's true,” I say, and I'm not sure if I completely buy it, but I feel better hearing her say it.

K
AREN'S IN THE
kitchen when I get home. I head straight for my room, but turn into the kitchen instead, removing my scarf and jacket.

“Hey,” I say. She turns, startled.

“How was your session?”

I stand in the doorway for a second.

“Pretty good, actually,” I say, and instead of turning, I slide onto the chair and slump over the kitchen island. She's got this look of pleasant surprise, and it sort of makes me feel guilty for the way I've been with her—even though Laura says I shouldn't take responsibility for how other people feel.

“Coffee?” She holds her hand over the cabinet door and waits for a response.

“Sure.” I catch a glimpse of the mason jars, but she shuts the door and pours me a mug. She pulls an unopened container of nondairy creamer out of the fridge and slides it across the island.

“I went shopping,” she says. “Figured you were getting tired of drinking it black.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, and bring the mug to my lips. “So,” I start, and there's a moment of awkward silence, but Karen perks up at the tone of my voice. “The shrink says I can go back to the city.”

“Oh,” she says. Her voice rises to a high pitch, and I detect a hint of disappointment there, but can't be sure. Maybe she's just surprised. “Are you sure you're ready for that? What about Danny?”

“I think so,” I say, and I shrug. I'm not really sure, but I don't feel unready, and I think that's a start. I don't say that, though. “We'll be fine,” I say. “I'm not worried about me and Danny.”

“Okay,” she says. “When were you planning on leaving?” She acts busy, opening and closing drawers, emptying the contents of the dishwasher.

“I was thinking a six o'clock train,” I say. “Is that okay?” I don't know why I'm asking for permission.

“Oh,” she says. “I guess that's okay. I just didn't realize you meant so soon.” There's a moment of cold silence, and I don't know what to say. I want to get up and walk away, but something keeps me still in my seat, sipping my coffee, waiting for my mother to collect her thoughts. “Well, I'm glad you're feeling better,” she says, and takes a breath. She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans on the island in front of me. “And, Aubrey, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” My insides start to turn, and I stare down at the counter. Despite these past two weeks of therapy, and everything that's happened, I am still not up for a mother-daughter bonding session.

“For putting Rachel on a pedestal, when it should have been you.” I wasn't expecting that response, but I'll take it. “And everything else,” she says.

“Don't sweat it,” I deadpan and take a sip of coffee. I try to keep a straight face.

“I'll miss having you around,” she says. “Really, though. You're a handful. But I'll miss you.” I roll my eyes, and stretch my arms out over the island. “Can I make you something to eat?” she asks, walking toward the refrigerator. The photo is gone—the one of Rachel and me at the Halloween parade in our matching hippie costumes. “I bought you one of those dairy-free pizzas,” Karen says. I'm about to ask what she did with the photo, if this was her idea of a peace offering, but instead, I remember the Montauk photo that I let fall behind my desk that first day.

“Sure,” I say. “Pizza sounds good.”

I
GO BACK
for it behind my desk. It's right where I left it.

Rachel's eyes burn into me from the glossy print—the Montauk sun glares. We're still sprawled out over that purple sheet, half of my face cut off by Rachel's horrible photo-taking abilities. I hold the picture up toward the light. It's dusty, and slightly faded, but still glossy in that CVS print sort of way. Photos are like shards of glass—a snapshot, a sound, a smell—broken pieces, but nothing I can really hold on to.